


You look human (I look weak)

by PersonyPepper



Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Child Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Prompt: Monster, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Understanding Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: Mutant.The insult isn’t so bad, just a reminder that he’s a freak, abomination. And truth be told, freaks aren’t that terrible. Outcasts, hideous, stupid, maybe, but not evil.Someone yellsdemonat him. And even that, he can live with, he can be one of Melitele’s rejects, fallen from grace. He certainly has the scars to prove it, collections of punishments from his Goddess. He deserves it.Because he’s being called amonster. The word rips into him, implying he is mindless, heart carved out by his own hands when he got bored of using it, his mind nothing but a writhing mass of hatred and fury.He wants to throw himself at their feet,beg, tell them he’s not that, that he’s so sorry he couldn’t save the children in time, that each of their cold faces will haunt him till he dies and to the hell which he goes to after that. He wants tocry, explain that he loved them, too, though he hadn’t known them, that he loves all humanity, though they throw rocks at him, hate him for what he is.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geralt Whump Week 2019-2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084442
Comments: 22
Kudos: 170





	You look human (I look weak)

A rotten tomato lands at his foot as he kneels, head bowed. Rocks pelt him, barely hurts, but hurts worse than anything he’s ever felt.

 _Mutant_. The insult isn’t so bad, just a reminder that he’s a freak, abomination. And truth be told, freaks aren’t that terrible. Outcasts, hideous, stupid, maybe, but not evil.

Someone yells _demon_ at him. And even that, he can live with, he can be one of Melitele’s rejects, fallen from grace. He certainly has the scars to prove it, collections of punishments from his Goddess. He deserves it.

Because he’s being called a _monster_. The word rips into him, implying he is mindless, heart carved out by his own hands when he got bored of using it, his mind nothing but a writhing mass of hatred and fury.

He wants to throw himself at their feet, _beg_ , tell them he’s not that, that he’s so sorry he couldn’t save the children in time, that each of their cold faces will haunt him till he dies and to the hell which he goes to after that. He wants to _cry_ , explain that he loved them, too, though he hadn’t known them, that he loves all humanity, though they throw rocks at him, hate him for what he is.

Eventually, Geralt manages to run out of town (or, the townsfolk tire of looking at him, his monstrous frame and his monstrous deeds and chase him out). He feels hollow, his failure weighing down on him so harshly that he’s half mad with it. Roach trails next to him, big brown eyes staring up at him, pleading. He smiles at her, awkward and without any humour as he tries to reassure her.

He finds a place to camp, no monsters around (other than himself). He settles down against a tree, Roach’s saddlebags laid beside him. She refuses to look, always has. But this is a punishment, no matter how his mare feels about it, punishments for failure must be taken. Destiny smiles over his shoulder as he digs a dagger out of his bag, the thing glinting nearly as menacing as her grin as he unsheaths it. It’s clean, pristine, even. Only dirtied by one sort of blood, perhaps the most disgusting thing of all to be sullied with. Witcher blood.

He tugs his trousers down, rucking his smalls up till their legs are bunched around his hip, his thigh exposed to the cold night. Scars are nothing new for a witcher; he's no exception, even if a great many of his scars are self-made.

He closes his eyes. Seven dead faces stare up at him, eyes a smatter of blues, greens, greys, and browns as he looks them over. If he looks down, he knows he’ll see dirt-smeared clothes and clear holes through bodies where the Leshen’s roots had speared through their hearts. Geralt had been days too late, their bodies rotting, worms writhing over their bodies. Much too late, if he’d only walked a little faster, slept a little less, seven faces would be smiling, laughing as they play under evening runs. It doesn’t matter if Geralt was too late now, because though time slows for sons of dressing up boxes, she’d abandoned Geralt long ago.

Seven neat lines. He presses the blade against his leg, neat and parallel to the others that would take hours to count (though he knows the number better than he knows himself), and presses oh so gently. A gentle bead of blood pools in the puncture before Geralt smears through it, etching his failure onto his skin. Seven little faces, seven little lines.

Punishment for being too late, for being a freak, a demon, a _monster_. 

He watches the lines bleed for a little longer, his thick blood slinking down the side of his thigh. He hates it. Hates the relief it gives him.

He bandages it up, a salve smeared over it, turning the blood a pasty color as it bleeds. It’ll heal before he falls asleep. He presses against the wounds, hissing as he feels sensitive skin itch and burn

Roach rests her head in his lap, curling around him as he leans against her. _“It’s fine, Roachie,_ ” he mumbles, _“I’m a monster, deserve it.”_ She huffs in his lap and doesn’t move away, as if to keep him by her, holds him as if in a mother’s embrace.

~~

He tries, tries so hard to save idiots that go after beasts in the name of bravery, tries so hard to save children who stumble into forests, lured by flickering light. He manages, no one is hurt but himself, stumbling out to camp after a contract, head spinning as he collapses, exhausted. He’s thin, worn to emaciation, just to never be called a monster again, to keep those lines away from his skin, to keep Destiny off his back. It doesn’t work. The word haunts him, a brand. And honestly, is he truly not a monster? He knows he doesn’t feel things as humans do, knows he’s giant, looms over all other people. He’s a _creature_ , a thing of nightmares. 

He wakes to a merry strum of a lute (he’d know that sound anywhere), and Jasksier’s melodic voice, singing about songbirds singing in the winter. Ironic. Songbirds usually left or died in the winter.

He’s on his bedroll, presumably rolled onto it by his friend. A groan slow and quiet leaves his lips as he blinks, bright evening light so harsh that it takes him a few moments to open his eyes.

“Geralt! You’re awake, the town said a witcher’d come here for a contract, gold eyes, white hair, and who else do I know that pulls off that look so well? Here, sit up,” the witcher takes the waterskin, chugs nearly all of it. “You’re painfully thin, my dear, I’ve got some bread here, but we’ll have to go back to town to get proper breakfast, careful, now—” And isn’t that the problem? Even under all of Geralt’s bloody armour, Jaskier can see how much weight he’s lost, far too observant. He’s just got to be a little more careful, is all. Work harder so Jaskier won’t see him have to be punished, won’t have to see how monstrous he truly is.

Geralt knows it isn’t normal, to split his skin himself, to relish in the pain it brings him, but what about him is normal? He’s heartless, beast more than human, lacking emotion that others find so easily. This is just a way to make him feel, express his regret. Either way, he doesn’t want Jaskier to think he’s more fucked up than he already is.

Jaskier wouldn’t see it that way, Jaskier who only sees beauty in all things evil, going so far as to call him a _friend of humanity._ He could scoff, just thinking about it but he’s far too tired right now.

~~ 

The tavern welcomes him with open arms as he brings the head of Gorgon in, snake-like hair wrapped in his grip. It’s odd. Don’t they see it? He’s covered in blood, barely scratched after killing a monster so powerful her gaze turns to those who look at it into stone. He can’t fucking stand it, his throat choked with hatred for their blindness. 

He needs it, needs to punish himself for lying to them, pretending he’s human. His fingers twitch and he hates his body for healing so quickly, wishes he could press on his cuts, smile a private smile to himself and drown in the bliss of the sting. He’s gone far too long without the pain.

Luckily, Jaskier is to perform tonight, the tavern big enough and audience welcoming enough to keep him occupied enough for Geralt to bring out his cursed blade. His friend is off with a wink and a promise to bring their dinner and the witcher finds himself half-running up the stairs, his knife burning into his side in his pocket.

The door is closed gently, his hands shaking as he settles on the stool beside the empty bath. His thighs are a mess of criss-crossing silver, neat lines long forgotten. The first cut makes him hiss, tears stinging in his eyes from how good it feels. He makes another, blood pooling in the white of his skin, and another, smearing red without care. He loses count, loses track of time as he works, high off the feeling, off the control, off the punishment.

He doesn’t hear the traven quiet from their loud cheering. He doesn’t hear tired footsteps come up the stairs, lute bouncing on a back with each step. He doesn’t hear the door swing open.

Though, he does hear plates crash to the floor, shattering as Jasksier stares at him in horror, at his leg, at the blade in his hand working over his skin.

He does hear the gasp. He does smell the rancid scent of Jaskier’s _fear_.

Some distant part of his mind wonders if this is all it’d taken for the bard to finally fear him. He waits for Jasksier to collect his things and leave. Waits for him to yell, scream, to fucking tremor in fear, maybe. Instead, Jaskier kicks the broken plates out of the way and closes the door behind him, approaches Geralt with careful, measured steps, so silent save for the creaking of wood.

To his surprise, Jaskier only wipes away his blood, so gentle as if Geralt doesn’t deserve rough treatment, as if he deserves to be cared for despite what he’s done to deserve his punishment.

He quietly wraps linens around Geralt’s wounds, taking care to apply salve and resolutely doesn't look at Geralt's eyes. 

Jaskier finishes, tying it off before looking at him, eyes a watery blue. “I suspected. Denied it, thought I was crazy for thinking you would.”

Geralt raises an unimpressed eyebrow, though he can’t help but ask. “How did you know?

Jaskier uncuffs his doublet and pulls it up, uncovering unblemished skin, only rubbing it and smearing some sort of skin-colored paste, uncovering years-old scars, healed horribly, a mess as much as Geralt’s thighs. “Experience, my dear.”

It makes Geralt’s stomach flutter with anger, taking Jaskier’s wrist in his hand with a softness he didn’t know he had. “You’re not a monster,” he says, voice gruff with confusion. 

Jaskier’s eyes soften with understanding. “Is that why you do this? To punish yourself?” It’s terrifying how well his bard knows him. A small smile rises on Jaskier’s face, patient as he helps his friend stand. “Come. You look tired, do you want to eat? I can ask for another plate—” the witcher shakes his head and Jaskier guides him into bed. Geralt feels worn and exhausted again, his rush gone, but it’s more than that. Years of pain, only for someone to finally see it, a heavy secret lifted off his shoulders.

They settle into bed, Geralt staring up at the ceiling, Jaskier beside him. It’s awkward, tense air between them.

“I said, you’re not a monster,” Jaskier starts, and Geralt tenses, “I lied—” before the witcher can rise, storm away, a gentle hand is pressed onto his chest, keeping him down as Jaskier cuddles into him, careful of his wounds. “—What I really wanted to say was that… being a monster is not such a terrible thing to be.”

Geralt growls, low in his chest, _yes it is,_ he wants to say, _I feel no emotion and I am punished for my failures. It’s a curse._ Not a word makes its way out of his throat. “You care so much, you have no idea how to express it. You grieve, take pain straight to your heart and have no idea what to do with it than hurt yourself, dear friend. From Elder, _monster_ is a divine messenger of catastrophe, adapted by elven speech to mean an animal of myriad origins. To be a monster, Geralt, is to be a hybrid signal, a lighthouse: both shelter and warning at once.”

Gentle hands hold him closer. “Rest, my dear witcher, and come morning, we’ll talk.” Though that should sound daunting, it doesn’t. He knows Jaskier, knows he won’t hurt him, not even like he hurts himself. The deaths and failures are his fault, he knows, preventable losses but… maybe they don’t make him a monster, for a monster isn’t mindless, nor is it heartless. 

To be a monster is to be shelter and warning at once and really, though he has much to learn, to understand, he thinks a monster doesn't sound like too bad of a thing to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Gods, I fucking hated writing this my inspiration fucked off somewhere in the midst of my writing, leaving me with pure determination to finish this. 
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Ik this was was a little more intense than some of my other fics for whump week.
> 
> Title’s from How Strange by Robert Hallow and The Holy Men. Also, Jaskier’s words are taken from a quote by Ocean Vuong, from On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous.
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr (@persony-pepper)!](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


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